


Metaphor

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-08
Updated: 2009-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair ponders humans and hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [spn_monthlyfic](http://spn-monthlyfic.livejournal.com/)'s December 2008 round. Challenge: tahirire; Alistair; ice, predestination, respect; "This place isn't ... red enough." Written in a night because I gave out the same challenge twice in December 2008. I so fail as a mod. *headdesk*

Equating hell with fire was too obvious. It lacked a certain originality that could force people to understand what hell was. From their earliest memories, most humans could find some memory of being told about hell. A parent saying they'd get hell for eating another cookie, a priest saying people would go to hell if they were bad, a movie with brilliant special effects that claimed to represent hell—there were so many references to hell in ordinary life on earth.

All of them were wrong. The fire and brimstone view of hell had never been accurate, as far as Alistair could see. He still enjoyed the metaphor as much as the next demon. There was an inner glee at imagining living in such a place that Alistair could revel in. However, the truth was that hell, while indescribable to a mere human mind, would be much more akin to a world covered in ice.

Alistair pondered this as he held a small kitchen knife over a middle-aged woman. She was tied to a chair that squeaked every time she moved, and the squeaking had gotten to the point that Alistair had strapped her arms and legs down even tighter, ensuring that the most she could do was move about with little effect. He had left her mouth uncovered at first. He preferred it that way. All gags, no matter how lightweight, muffled the screams. Yet the human started crying out for help, as they always did, and Alistair simply grabbed the nearest rag and stuffed it into her mouth until she began to suffocate.

"Through your nose," he advised. He brought his hands up along his chest, flipped them over, and then slowly lowered them. "Breathe through your nose."

He shook his head as he started cutting into the woman's flesh with the somewhat dull knife. Humans were so simple. They could truly only concentrate on one event at a time. They could only comprehend one idea about any given thing—anything that didn't fit into their idea of what was correct was rejected outright. It was why they would never understand the merciless unfeeling layers of hell until they experienced it for themselves. A hell made of fire offered some measure of comfort. To be burned was painful, of course, but it was quick and vibrant, full of emotion and energy. The hell Alistair knew was slow, agonizingly slow, and went on endlessly in all directions without respite.

A grin stretched across his face, cutting his mouth open, baring his teeth to the woman in front of him. He did love hell in all of its elegant, cruel glory. There was something about people screaming in pain every few milli-seconds that had him relaxed and content. Other demons found joy in it as well, but none so much as he.

There were also those demons who firmly wanted to escape from hell. Their escapades were the most futile, contemptible, and amusing to watch in all the underworld. Certainly, the demons who wanted to escape hell might have had a point. It wasn't an easy place to love. But they were demons, and there was something fated about being a demon and living in hell that had to be accepted. Alistair was no fan of predestination—that famous idea of God's that things were meant to be and happened for a reason. One minute in hell disproved that idea. Still, Alistair knew all demons belonged in hell, as well as most humans. Some may not know it, some may not accept it, but that didn't matter. Hell was like ice—cold, able to pierce through you and pin you down, able to numb your body until all you felt was the freezing temperatures that surrounded you. There was no escape.

Alistair looked around the kitchen, briefly scanning the floral curtains and wooden cabinets. There was something so human about all of this. They lived such mundane lives and assumed they would get a pass to heaven without even trying. It was pathetic.

And so deliciously amusing.

"This place isn't… red enough," Alistair said, fingering the dull edge of the blade. He was used to hell, where red lined every surface and body. It was blood and horror and despair mingled together, and it was a red no human could ever fully understand while they lived in a place such as this one.

That was the problem with earth. It was filled with humans who had no respect for the beings who would have complete control over their eternal torment. They lived without any knowledge of what was important and put emphasis on insignificant details. It was only fair that they experience a small amount of the suffering they would have after death. Torturing them allowed them to grasp how precious their time on earth was, taught them to fear the afterlife and what it held, and was just plain fun.

"Ah, there we are." The woman squirmed in her chair, making pleas that came out muffled and thick in the rag. "Shh," Alistair said, stroking her hair in a gentle, soothing manner. "We've only just begun." He reached for the cleaver, the base of the blade gleaming in a wooden holder meant to ensure that no one was ever accidentally harmed.

 

_fin._


End file.
